“I reckon not as I don’t own any clothes but what I set in, except a couple of old shirts and them socks. My hat’s stoppin’ up the winder, and my old coat is my bed-cover. I’m awful shabby, ma’am, and that’s one reason I don’t go out more. I can hobble some, but I ain’t got used to bein’ a scarecrow yet,” and Joe glanced from the hose without heels that hung on the line to the ragged suit he wore, with a resigned expression that made me long to rush out and buy up half the contents of Oak Hall on the spot. Curbing this wild impulse I presently departed with promises of speedy transportation for Joe, and unlimited oranges to assuage the pangs of parting for the young Flanagins, who escorted me to the door, while Joe waved the baby like a triumphal banner till I got round the corner. There was such a beautiful absence of red tape about the new institution that it only needed a word in the right ear to set things going; and then, with a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all together, Joe Collins was taken up and safely landed in the Home he so much needed and so well deserved. A happier man or a more grateful one it would be hard to find, and if a visitor wants an enthusiastic guide about the place, Joe is the one to take, for all is comfort, sunshine, and good-will to him; and he unconsciously shows how great the need of this refuge is, as he hobbles about on his lame feet, pointing out its beauties, conveniences, and delights with his one arm, while his face shines, and his voice quavers a little as he says gratefully,— “The State don’t forget us, you see, and this is a Home wuth havin’. Long life to it!” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Written in 1867.] WHAT THE BELLS SAW AND SAID. “Bells ring others to church, but go not in themselves.” NO one saw the spirits of the bells up there in the old steeple at midnight on Christmas Eve. Six quaint figures, each wrapped in a shadowy cloak and wearing a bell-shaped cap. All were gray-headed, for they were among the oldest bell-spirits of the city, and “the light of other days” shone in their thoughtful eyes. Silently they sat, looking down on the snow-covered roofs glittering in the moonlight, and the quiet streets deserted by all but the watchmen on their chilly rounds, and such poor souls as wandered shelterless in the winter night. Presently one of the spirits said, in a tone, which, low as it was, filled the belfry with reverberating echoes,— “Well, brothers, are your reports ready of the year that now lies dying?” All bowed their heads, and one of the oldest answered in a sonorous voice:—